


Water

by MelanieVimpula



Category: Homestuck
Genre: Dirk and his broken mind, Guilt, Incest, Kinda Sadstuck, M/M, Masturbation, Onesided?, Psychological Porn, Sadboner, Showers
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-05-06
Updated: 2013-05-06
Packaged: 2017-12-10 14:49:44
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,781
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/787263
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MelanieVimpula/pseuds/MelanieVimpula
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Dirk has taken a liking to his late Bro. And showers. Lots of them.<br/>If only guilt would be easy to clean off yourself...</p>
<p>Not sure if sadstuck or not, Dirk's thoughts just aren't exactly the happiest ones.<br/>And fapping to his Bro's old interviews is quite depressing also. Maybe.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Water

**Author's Note:**

> Look, it's a fic. I wanted to think about Dirk and his obsession with the legendary infinite showers. Psychology in motion once again. :D  
> And Alphacest is hot. ...I think I sadstucked a little.  
> But surprisingly it's not any kind of abuse this time! That's something new...  
> I'm done talking now, enjoy your read~♥

You turn off the shower. The bathroom's air is hot and thick with steam. You don't want to get up off the floor, feeling weak and lightheaded. You always take your showers sitting on the floor, using water so hot your skin can barely stand it. Now your skin is raw and red, feeling all too hot. But you're still cold inside. The icy feeling never goes away, no matter how you try. The water drips down your face, reaching your nose where it drops and hits the floor. Your hair drips too. It's a demanding, rhythmical sound. It's demanding you to get up and get on with it. You hate it. You hate to know you're still there and didn't melt away with the water. Because with you, all these numerous thoughts would be gone too. You still exist and it's a bittersweet thought. You close your eyes, just wondering how many hours it has been this time. Not that time matters much around here anymore. It's just a thing a human being has comfort of knowing. You're also kinda hungry and thirsty, which seems just ridiculous; you spent many hours under continuous stream of water and now you're thirsty. You don't have the strength to move your body, but you're not relaxed. Just a bit numb, but not in the right way. You can feel how the muscles in your shoulders are tense and stiff, almost cramped. It hurts. Every part of you is sore and stiff. How is it so hard to relax? Why can't you coax yourself to let go of all these thoughts? Even though you offer yourself a hot shower, a thing you've always liked, and extended it that it could do the thing. It doesn't. You're freezing inside and you don't think anything can help that. Your Bro would be ashamed to see you like this. You were supposed to fight, to be strong, not some emotional wimp sitting on his bathroom's floor, not even daring to get up. With a deep sigh you prop your hands against the walls and try to stand up. Your hands slip from the fogged up tiles, but you're most certain you _must_ get up now. It's slow, but soon you're firmly on your feet, feeling terribly empty. You're so lonely. You step out of the shower and pause in front of the mirror. Your reflection's orange eyes are fixated to yours and you can read them all too clear. Also, there's this slightly unnerving frown on your face; lips parted and the corners of your mouth dipping down. You quickly snatch your shades on the sink and slip them on. They're fogged up. You have to look over the rim of your shades to find the towel. You wrap it around your waist and get out of there. By the looks of the deserted apartment you figure it's night. You walk up to the living room window and press your forehead against to cool glass. All you see is this endless sea. You hate being this lonely. If only you could have lived in the past, like Jake and Jane, you would have company. You could see your Bro, know you've got a family. Have a Guardian you could look up to, whom you could make proud of you. Your growling stomach interrupts your thoughts, which is actually good because they were going towards the direction that would make you feel even worse. You make your way to the kitchen and turn on the oven. Today's meal will be pizza and orange soda, just like yesterday, and a day before that, and the day before that...

You slump down on the sofa to eat, feeling you need some kind of entertainment. A movie could do the thing. You feel like watching one of your Bro's ridiculous movies. You search SBAHJ the Moive from the movie cabinet and put it in the player. That shit is ridiculous, so absurd it's actually really funny. Your Bro is a genius. Or was... You sigh. But all the buzzing noise, lagging and pixels drown your thoughts quickly again. It makes your head hurt, but at least you're enjoying yourself for a change. When the credits roll, you can't think of anything. It's that pleasant fuzz that makes your mind feel soft and world not so bad. You don't have that often, so you want to enjoy every moment of it. Without thinking you open the extras and choose your Bro's interview. His flat voice is so soothing. Deep down you know what you're gonna do next, but right now you don't care; you feel good. You've seen this so many times, you remember every little quirk on the corner of his mouth and every single syllable of his speech. How his cheekbones curve, how the piercings on his lips move when he talks, how his eyebrows rise over the rim of his sunglasses... Every single detail is making you shiver. He's so …perfect. You adore his confidence and how soft his hair looks like, even with all the gel it's slicked back with. You wonder how he looks like with his hair down. You love how he's almost unreadable and deadpan most of the time, spicing it up with a few devilish smirks. You've trained your eye for his emotions and you can see how excited he actually is. You've trained yourself to be unreadable, just like him. He's the ultimate role-model for you, everything you ever wanted to be and everything you ever wanted to have. You know you're gonna ruin yourself like this, but right now you don't give a fuck. There's plenty of time to feel guilty afterwards.

You find yourself breathing in a fast but heavy pace, eyes darting across your brother's features. Especially his lips. Oh yes, those lips that you wish could press against your jawline and then bite into your shoulder. Those large manly hands you wish could grab your hair and push your face into the bed. Sometimes even wrap around your neck and squeeze. You can just imagine what kind of strangled moan that'll make you to let out. And those gorgeous crimson eyes, oh, how you wish your Bro would command you with that deep, flat tone to look in his eyes when he fucks you senseless. No, not this again. But you knew what you were doing when you chose the extras. And you knew fully well where it would go. You make the decisions, you take the consequence.  
Don't try to play innocent.  
And you won't, there's nothing innocent in you when you grab your painfully hard cock.  
There's nothing innocent in you when you mutter his name under your breath. And there's nothing innocent in you when you press your fingers into yourself, wishing it could be your Bro. The innocence is long gone already.

You're desperate. So desperate and vaguely pathetic. ...Not really even vaguely. You can't stop thinking, not even when you're jerking off to your illegally attractive Bro. You bite into your lip, not to stifle a moan, but to get something else to think. You really don't need to control your voice in an apartment where you're all alone. You're still not noisy, actually really quiet. AR says something but you just bow your head and drop the shades next to yourself. You don't really need to know how fucked up you are. You squeeze yourself harder, you have to hurry, the clip is almost over. And you really want to get the timing right; at the end your Bro makes his most wicked grin, looking over the rim of his shades. That's your absolute favourite. AR beeps again but now you're too busy with yourself to even notice. You can hear your heart thumping and blood rushing through your head, your breath hitching lightly. You push your fingers deeper inside and stroke yourself almost violently. The heat pools in your abdomen and the muscles flex under your skin. Every single nerve is tingling and you hold your breath. You're so close. Every flick of your wrist makes you squirm. You can feel yourself swelling and feel the pulse against your fingers. And when you buck into them, the beat rushes through your whole body. It gets increasingly harder to hold your breath, but oh does it feel so good! The light oxygen deprivation starts to take effect and soon you're nothing but shuddering mess under the crimson eyes of your Bro. You pant, slowly riding off your orgasm, feeling sticky but satisfied. You close your eyes for a second, just to open them when the annoying menu theme of the extras start to play. Just then it hits you. The pleasurable haze starts to fade and you don't know what to feel. Without the hormonal need of a teenager obstructing your vision you can see the full picture again; you just came by watching your late Bro speak about his movies and creation process. You're sick and disgusting. Everything is falling apart once again. AR speaks, this time you bother looking at his screen. “Feeling satisfied, you incestuous creep?” is all you can read before looking swiftly away. You don't want to hear the words, but the worst part is; you would say the exact same thing to any other version of yourself. You're disgustingly sweaty and sticky. You turn the TV off and stand up, taking your still damp towel and wiping yourself clean. You pick up your shades too. You turn Pesterchum off, not that it would stop AR from saying anything, but he knows full well you don't want to talk. Sometimes he does respect you on this part, but sometimes he just wants to get an answer out of you. This is one of those latter times.

TT: Hey, don't turn that off when I talk to you.   
TT: That was humor. Don't be such an uptight bitch about it.  
TT: Listen to me, will ya?  
TT: I just don't understand why you continue this if it makes you that guilty every fucking time.   
TT: Every. Single. Fucking. Time.   
TT: You don't know what's good for you, do you?   
TT: …Dirk?   
TT: …  
TT: Just...  
TT: Don't break yourself, 'kay?

You turn the Pesterchum off again. You don't need his pity. You sigh; it's time for another shower. You need to scrub this guilt off yourself. Shame it clings tightly to lonely human beings. You give the last glance towards the window and the rising sun before going back into the bathroom.

Staying hopeful for tomorrow isn't easy in such a dead world.  
Even harder when you're dead inside too.


End file.
